Wanting

 

It’s 3:33 in the afternoon. Usually, I’m just waking from a nap, but today I had an eleven o’clock confab with my hematologist. Every eight weeks I get checked to see how tired my blood is. Turns out it remains stable at the same shitty numbers it’s been running. So, I guess I’ll see them in eight weeks!

​Not to be confused with the blood work for my kidney doctor, cardiologist, urologist, or GP. My oil gets changed regularly. For me, if my blood’s tired, it’s from driving to all these specialists in three different cities—not including the eye exams, hearing tests, and begging a dentist to see my nine or ten broken teeth with exposed roots.

​I’m a shitty sight. If not for regular showers and washed clothes, I’d look like I live under a bridge. But give the current administration time.

​So what’s the point? I guess I’m just too stupid to give up. Mentally I’m a certified trainwreck with the paperwork to prove it, yet here I am—like a wad of gum you can’t scrape off your shoe. A pimple on the nose of a perfect society. But damn it, I just keep popping back up.

​There’s no formula for me, other than my desire not to die. Therapists always ask, “Do you want to harm yourself?” My answer is always “No.” Yet evidence shows a history of intentional and unintentional self-abuse. So can the answer really be no?

​In the search for that “piece of the pie,” I wonder if the problem is the word itself: want. As a child, I wanted my mom’s approval, so I tried to walk. As a teenager, I wanted the girl, so I fought for her attention. We want possessions, wealth, fame, and more. So if my whole stick in life is, “I want to live?” Then I suppose there’s nothing wrong with wanting, given the value of the prize.

#Wanting #Desire #Will #Secret #PieceOfThePie